Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
Frankie made two more saves on the kill.
Brookfield survived.
The first period stayed scoreless until 2:11 left.
Then it happened.
Bad bounce.
Not even a clean breakdown.
A Westbridge point shot hit a skate, changed direction, struck Frankie’s pad, and dropped at the top of the crease.
For half a second, no one knew where it was.
Except Westbridge’s late forward.
She jammed it in.
Goal.
The rink went sharp and quiet before the Westbridge section cheered.
Coop’s stomach dropped through the concrete.
One early goal.
Not that early, but early enough.
One got through.
His eyes went straight to Frankie.
She stayed down for one beat.
Two.
Then stood.
Slow.
The old fear surged in him.
He wanted to do something.
What?
Nothing.
This was not his crease.
Not his save.
Not his moment to rescue.
Again.
He clapped once.
Then again.
Hayes joined.
Then Tanner.
Then Nolan, foam finger raised.
The men’s team started the sound.
The student section picked it up.
Not frantic.
Not pity.
Rhythm.
Again.
Again.
Again.
No chant words.
Just sticks on boards, hands, foam fingers.
Frankie skated to her crease.
Tapped her post.
Looked toward the bench.
Reese said something.
Sutter said something shorter.
Frankie nodded.
Then her mask turned, just barely, toward the student section.
Coop held her gaze for less than a second.
Bench face.
Again.
Not scared.
Not sorry.
Not devastated.
Just again.
She looked away.
Set.
Puck dropped.
Brookfield did not collapse.
That was the first victory.
They pushed back.
Reese won a board battle and fed Dani for a shot that forced Westbridge’s goalie into an awkward save. Birdie chirped Asher after a neutral-zone collision, and Asher grinned like he was having the time of his life. Wren blocked a shot with her shin and looked personally insulted by physics.
The period ended 1–0 Westbridge.
In the intermission, Coop could not sit.
Neither could Nolan.
Hayes crossed his arms. “Sit.”
Nolan sat.
Coop did not.
Hayes looked at him.
Coop forced himself down onto the bleacher.
Again.
He had promised.
“She’s fine,” Nolan said.
Coop looked at him.
Nolan’s face was unusually serious.
“She is,” Nolan said. “Not fake fine. Goalie fine.”
Coop breathed out.
“Yeah.”
Wren, standing one row below, glanced back. “The team adjusted after the goal. That matters.”
“It does,” Hayes said.
Coop nodded.
His phone buzzed.
Mara.
MARA: Watching stream. Bad bounce. Tell your face to behave.
Coop laughed once.
Because of course.
COOP: Working on it.
MARA: She looks mad, not broken. Good sign?
Coop watched the Spitfires return to the ice for the second period.
Frankie led them out this time.
Not literally captain.
But first.
Mask down.
Crease waiting.
COOP: Good sign.
The second period was a fight.
Brookfield found its legs.
The funding did not stop shots, but maybe belief changed the shape of pressure. The Spitfires did not play like a program trying not to embarrass itself.
They played like a team with structure under them.
Reese tied it at 14:03 on a rebound off Dani’s shot.
O’Malley’s probably heard the crowd.
Birdie nearly gave Brookfield the lead two shifts later but hit the post.
Asher said something to her in passing.
Birdie said something back.
They both smiled like enemies in a book Coop would absolutely not mention out loud.
At 8:44, Westbridge broke in on another two-on-one.
Coop’s body went cold.
Same pattern.
Carrier wide.
Weak-side option late.
Frankie set.
Carrier showed pass.
Frankie held.
Shot low.
She kicked it to the corner.
Textbook.
No rebound.
No second chance.
The student section roared.
Nolan screamed, “READ THE ICE!”
This time, no one stopped him.
Frankie skated behind the net, calm as winter, and left the puck for Wren.
Coop’s chest felt too full.
Again face nearly broke into joy.
He got it under control before Frankie looked.
Mostly.
Second period ended 1–1.
The third period began with pressure so heavy the rink felt smaller.
Westbridge wanted to prove the new funding did not matter.
Brookfield wanted to prove it did.
Or maybe that was the story everyone else put on it.
On ice, it was simpler.
Puck.
Read.
Again.
At 11:12, Brookfield took a penalty.
A bad one.
Tired hook in the neutral zone.
Westbridge power play.
The crowd tightened again.
Asher took the half wall.
Birdie, on the kill, lined up across from her.
For once, neither chirped.
The puck moved fast.
Low.
High.
Across.
Frankie made the first save.
Rebound kicked too central.
Coop’s heart stopped.
Weak-side crash.
This time, the forward got inside.
Shot.
Frankie was down.
The puck lifted.
Glove.
Frankie’s glove.
Somehow.
She snatched it out of the air while half-turned, half-screened, half-buried in traffic.
Whistle.
Silence.
Then eruption.
Coop was on his feet before he knew he had moved.
So was everyone.
The building shook.
Frankie stayed on one knee for half a second, puck in glove, head lowered.
Then she lifted the glove.
Not dramatic.
Just proof.
Pucks were rude.
She stopped them.
The penalty kill survived.
Five minutes left.
Four.
Three.
Brookfield pressed.
Westbridge cleared.
Reese battled.
Dani chased.
Wren held.
Birdie flew.
With 1:26 left, Birdie stole a puck at the blue line from Asher.
Asher lunged.
Birdie spun away, somehow stayed upright, and fed Reese cutting through the middle.
Reese shot.
Save.
Rebound.
Dani crashed.
Goal.
Brookfield led 2–1.
Coop could not hear himself think.
Nolan was hugging Tanner.
Hayes had both hands on his head, laughing like he had forgotten how.
Wren was already filming and crying exactly zero tears, according to her face, though her eyes argued.
Westbridge pulled their goalie.
Six on five.
Final minute.
The shot map came alive in real time.
Traffic.
Screens.
Weak-side crash.
Everything.
Frankie stopped the first shot.
Rebound corner.
Stopped the second through a screen.
Covered.
Faceoff.
Thirty-one seconds.
Westbridge won the draw.
Point shot.
Deflection.
Pad.
Loose puck.
Chaos.
Birdie yelled, “Weak!”
Reese dropped to block the lane.
Dani tied up a stick.
Frankie pushed across.
Puck slid through bodies toward the post.
She slammed the pad down.
Whistle.
No goal.
Twelve seconds.
Coop’s hands hurt from clapping.
His throat hurt from not screaming her name in a way that would make this about him.
Faceoff.
Westbridge won again.
Asher got the puck at the half wall.
Birdie charged.
Asher waited.
Shot-pass.
Backdoor.
Frankie read it.
Moved before the pass fully arrived.
Glove save.
Clean.
Three seconds.
The crowd detonated.
Frankie held the puck.
Ref blew the whistle.
Puck dropped once more.
Reese tied it up.
Horn.
Brookfield won.
For one second, Coop did not move.
The horn blared.
The Spitfires poured over the boards.
Frankie stood in the crease as the team crashed into her, all arms and helmets and gloves and screaming.
The student section shook the glass.
Nolan had lost his foam finger and possibly his mind.
Hayes grabbed Coop by the shoulders and shouted something he could not hear.
Coop laughed.
Or shouted.
Maybe both.
Brookfield had beaten Westbridge.
Not in a donor packet.
Not in a projection.
On the ice.
2–1.
Frankie gave up one.
Then stopped everything after.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The handshake line formed eventually.
Westbridge looked stunned but not broken.
Good team.
Real team.
Asher reached Birdie in line.
They shook hands.
Asher said something.
Birdie’s face went bright red.
Then she said something back.
Asher laughed.
Oh, Book Three was going to be a disaster.
Not the time.
Focus.
Frankie shook hands last, mask lifted, hair damp around her face. She looked tired. Fierce. Alive.
When she reached Asher, Asher said something too.
Frankie listened.
Then nodded once.
Respect.
After the line, Frankie skated toward the bench.
Her eyes found Coop in the stands.
The world was screaming around them.
Still, the look landed.
Not empty.
Prepared.
Enough.
His face was not normal.
No chance.
But it was not fear.
It was joy.
Pride.
Again turned into after.
Frankie’s mouth curved.
A real smile.
Small, because she was still Frankie.
But real.
Coop gripped the rail and smiled back.
After the game, the lobby became impossible.
Students chanting.
Parents calling.
Claire hugging Doyle, which Doyle looked unprepared for.
Sutter saying “Good” so many times Birdie started counting and then cried at number four.
The men’s team waited near the edge, not invading the Spitfires’ space.
Coop stood with Hayes and Nolan, heart still racing.
Frankie emerged from the locker room in sweats and damp hair, her bag over one shoulder.
The room shifted toward her.
She accepted congratulations with visible discomfort and less visible panic.
Then she saw Coop.
Her path changed.
Direct.
No hiding.
No hesitation.
She stopped in front of him.
For once, he spoke first.
“Again,” he said.
Her eyes softened.
“Again,” she answered.
Then she stepped into him and kissed him.
In the lobby.
In front of everyone.
No ask.
Her choice.
His brain blanked.
Then he kissed her back, one hand at her waist, the other careful at her back, the whole building roaring around them.
The kiss was brief.
Public.
Still enough to knock the breath out of him.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were pink, but her chin was up.
“Exception,” she said.
His smile went helpless.
“Noted.”
Birdie screamed.
Nolan shouted, “THE FORECAST—”
Wren clamped a hand over his mouth.
Frankie did not look away from Coop.
“I didn’t hear him,” she said.
His chest tightened.
“Not once?”
“Not once.”
He swallowed.
“That seems big.”
“It is.”
“Your big?”
She smiled.
“My big.”
The team swallowed her again after that.
Reese.
Birdie.
Dani.
Wren.
Sutter.
All of them.
Coop stepped back and let them have her.
Because that was the work too.
Knowing when to hold on.
Knowing when to let the team carry what belonged to the team.
His phone buzzed.
Mara.
MARA: SHE DID DESTROY THEM. CURRENT EVIDENCE: LEGEND.
Coop laughed and typed:
COOP: She’ll respect that.
Then another message came.
His mother.
MOM: We watched. She was wonderful. Not just the saves. Her steadiness. I see why you like her.
Coop stared at that.
Then looked across the lobby at Frankie, trapped in Birdie’s arms and pretending not to be happy.
Like.
Such a small word.
Not wrong.
Not enough.
Soon, maybe.
Not here.
Not in the immediate noise after Westbridge.
Say a thing.
Not the whole thing.
He typed back:
COOP: Yeah. She’s incredible.
His mother sent a heart.
Coop put the phone away.
Later, after the crowd thinned and the teams spilled toward O’Malley’s again because all roads apparently led to pancakes, Frankie found him near the side entrance.
She had escaped the team for thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
Her face was flushed.
Tired.
Bright.
She stopped close.
“Drive me?”
“Anywhere.”
“O’Malley’s.”
“Team date?”
“Victory meal.”
“Date-adjacent?”
She looked at him.
Then reached for his hand.
“Date-included.”
His heart nearly gave up.
“High praise.”
“Accurate.”
He squeezed her hand once.
Outside, the cold air hit them clean.
The rink roared behind them.
Frankie’s father was still muted.
The board funding was in writing.
Westbridge had come and gone.
One goal had gotten through.
The old voice had not.
As they walked toward his car, Frankie looked up at the dark sky and breathed like she had finally found room in her own lungs.
Coop opened the passenger door.
She looked at him.
“I can open doors.”
“I know.”
“Still?”
“Still.”
She got in.
“It’ll do.”
He closed the door and stood for half a second in the cold, smiling like an idiot.
Normal face impossible.
Prepared face no longer needed.
Tonight, joy could have his whole face.
Just for a while.